Heights of Shame
by Extrapolation
Summary: After Altair once again fails to assassinate Robert de Sable, Al Mualim decides he has outlived his usefulness. A what-if. Concrit greatly appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

Deviations from canon:

1. Robert de Sable actually was at Jerusalem, but Altair failed to kill him.

2. Altair has not apologized to Malik. Their relationship is strained.

* * *

><p><em>Master,<em>

_I bring only ill tidings. Altair has failed to stop Robert de Sable and already the Templar flees Jerusalem; where to, I do not know. Troubling more still are rumors that Robert plans to unite Saracen and Crusader against us and launch an assault on Masyaf. I will walk amongst Jerusalem's people to find information on Robert's whereabouts, that we may strike him before his plans come to fruition. Altair awaits further orders._

_Your loyal servant,_

_Malik_

Nights in Jerusalem are quiet and peaceful, save for the occasional drunk stumbling home or the handful of crazed lepers that prowl the darker alleys. The crowds that flow like blood through the city sleep with the sun, as do the shopkeepers that set up their stands to hawk their wares, so the roads are deserted and silent; few wish to stay out at this hour, since the air grows chill in the Holy Land when the sun sets.

Malik walks the empty streets with reluctance. He rarely ventures out of the Bureau; mainly because he is supposed to keep a low profile, but also, though he is loath to admit it, because his lack of an arm makes it excruciatingly difficult to climb out. The dai makes an exception tonight for a meeting with an exceptionally skittish informant – or perhaps an exceptionally sadistic one – who had refused to meet him in the Bureau.

A movement catches Malik's eye and he freezes, lone hand darting instinctively towards his sword. He loosens it in its sheath, listening intently for footsteps, but the only sounds are the harsh rasp of the blade's passage and his own gentle breathing. He casts his gaze about, peering intently into shadows, but he does not catch so much as a glimpse of movement. Malik begins to wonder whether it was just his imagination, but then – _There it is._ A familiar flash of white and red is moving over the rooftops, and after a moment, he realizes it is Altair.

_Damn that man,_ he thinks even as he begins to run. _I told him to stay put and wait for Al Mualim's orders!_

His meeting momentarily forgotten, Malik races after the other assassin. He dares not shout out – though the city may sleep, the guards do not – so instead he follows Altair by ground, navigating the twisting streets of Jerusalem with the ease of familiarity. The path Altair takes over the rooftops is far more direct, though, and he has always been the faster runner, so the dai is hard-put to keep up. The alleys are narrow and limit his view of sky and roof to narrow strips, forcing Malik to guess the other man's route. Once, twice, three times he turns out into a square and doesn't see that familiar white-and-red blur flowing across the rooftops and has to double back, straining eyes and ears for a glimpse of a robe or the faint sound of boot on tile.

In the end he nearly runs into the assassin when Malik turns sharply out of the territory of some growling madman. Altair is clambering down the wall as easily as if it were a ladder, working the toes of his boots into cracks and gripping windowsills or ledges.

"Altair." Malik is panting, unused to exertion after weeks spent holed up in the Bureau. The assassin jerks in surprise, his hidden blade sliding out of its sheath reflexively, before he recognizes the dai's voice and relaxes.

"Malik," he murmurs. "You saw me leave?"

"I saw you leaping around in the moonlight like a fool," the dai growls. "Where do you think you're going?"

"After Robert. I must find him."

"And how exactly will you do that? You don't even know what direction he fled in."

Altair is silent. Malik only sighs heavily.

"Novice. I thought you had learned not to rush into things so readily."

"What would you have me do? I would rather wander aimlessly than sit and waste away." The master assassin's face is still and impassive as ever, but the heat in his voice gives away his agitation. "I want _answers_, Malik, and Al Mualim is not likely to provide."

"Traipsing about the countryside will get you no answers," Malik snaps.

"Neither will sitting idly in the Bureau."

"At least there Al Mualim can contact you and give you information! One of our spies might even have gotten word of Robert's destination."

The hooded figure looks unconvinced. He opens his mouth, but is cut off before he can speak.

"Come. I am meeting with an informant tonight. He has news for me that might aid you in your search."

He walks away like he expects Altair to follow, but he doesn't stop holding his breath until a second pair of footsteps begin to trail him.

"If this informant of yours has nothing that may aid me…"

"He will." Calm. Assured. He doubts he can keep Altair in Jerusalem with anything but the promise of Robert's whereabouts. When the assassin sets his mind to something, no act of god or man can stop him.

_And you don't want him to leave. The only neutral face in a sea of pity._

_Shut up._

"Where is this informant of yours?"

"By the Dome of the Rock," Malik answers, gesturing towards the gilded mosque. "He refused to meet me in the bureau, the—"

Altair silences him mid-sentence, pulling him quickly into the shadow of a pile of crates, and for all the supposed resentment Malik holds for Altair, he surprises himself by not reacting, by _trusting_ the man who took so much from him. Safe in their hiding place, Altair hastily lets go of the dai; he had grabbed a fistful of Malik's empty left sleeve and now jerks his hand away as if burned. Malik blinks, surprised, but Altair refuses to meet his eyes.

A moment later, a Templar patrol rounds the corner, passing within inches of the two assassins, armor clanking and rattling loudly, but the night is dark and the two men are not noticed. Malik fingers the throwing knives hidden beneath his robes and glares as they pass. It is hard to restrain himself when he thinks of how vulnerable they are, how oblivious, how quickly and silently he could kill them. Six Templars. Six knives. He wonders at Altair's desire for stealth – he had certainly never showed any inclination before.

The dai gets out of their hiding place first, towers over Altair (something he could never do if Altair were not crouched on the ground) and offers his lone hand with a smug smile. Predictably, the assassin disdains his help and pushes past the dai, stalking onward towards the golden dome. They walk in silence for a while, but Malik knows Altair won't pass up the opportunity to insult him. Al-Sayf is not disappointed.

"It seems your time as a scribe has been kind to you," the assassin teases. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "You are getting fat and slow. Like a cow."

Malik doesn't deign to dignify _that_ with a response. As they walk on, he can practically feel Altair's self-satisfied smirk pressing against him like a headache.

"Even a novice could have heard those Templars."

Al-Sayf scoffs. "So speaks the person who was trying to find a man that might be a day's _ride_ in any direction – on _foot._"

"Not on foot," Altair insists, but his smirk vanishes. "I am no fool. I have a horse."

"Really? Because if I recall correctly, you did not ride here."

"I can… acquire… a horse."

Stealing horses is not frowned upon in the Order, as the brotherhood's work often requires them to make quick, haphazard escapes – often on the back of horses that do not belong to them – but still…

"You mean steal_,_" he presses, and watches, amused, as Altair squirms. The proud assassin hates admitting that he has to steal like an unscrupulous thief, hates the fact that he has no money whatsoever, hates that for all he knows a hundred ways to kill a man, he is broke as a beggar. Al Mualim believes in the Brotherhood owning money – not individuals. And he monitors their treasury very, very carefully.

"Borrow." There is a defiant tone in Altair's voice, and Malik could swear the other man is _sulking._ For the first time since Solomon's Temple, the dai is almost… enjoying the master assassin's company.

In fact, he can barely contain a chuckle as he says, "Oh, yes, borrow! When you borrow things, they aren't seen again for years. Or have you forgotten about that knife you 'borrowed' from me when we were novices?"

"I will give it back," Altair insists in the wooden tone that means he's trying not to smile.

"I'm sure."

"…Eventually," the assassin assents. The moonlight traces a silver curve on his lips.

Malik grins, and it almost feels as if Solomon's Temple had never happened, that they are in the walls of the keep laughing and joking and acting stupid. Malik can almost see Kadar tagging along, plucking at his sleeve saying _come on, show me that trick again, the one with the feather and the sword. _He reaches absently to this left to ruffle his little brother's hair—

Nothing happens. There's no left arm, no brother, nothing but his own sudden, startled gasp. The dai is suddenly, acutely aware of the night around him, of the _now_ in comparison to the _then_, and he's relieved beyond words when he looks up to see the informant in front of him because Altair is now giving him an odd look that Malik does not want to analyze.

_Pity? Guilt? Sympathy?_

He forces the thoughts – of his brother, of his arm, of Altair, damn the man – out of his mind and focuses on what's at hand.

_I don't want to know._

"Greetings, brother," the informant – what was his name again? Abdulla? – says, bowing low with his hand on his heart.

"Greetings," the dai returns. Altair only nods, still watching Malik with a look that says he knows exactly what had been going through the other man's head.

The meeting is over as soon as it begins. Abdullah is shifting from foot to foot and wringing his hands the whole time, and his words tumble out of his mouth in a disorganized mess. The informant has only one piece of information to give, but it is exactly what Malik has been searching for ever since Altair half-fell into the bureau, exhausted and defeated. He doesn't know how the man got hold of a tidbit like that, and he's not sure he wants to.

The informant turns to leave, and nearly jumps out of his skin when a dead man falls to the ground with a sickening thump.

Malik knows Altair better than he would like to admit. Ignoring Abdullah, who is clutching his heart and staring at the corpse fearfully, he traces the outline of the dome and sees the master assassin silhouetted against the light of the moon. He is crouching on a little jutting plank of wood extending from the mosque, for all the world looking like some grotesque gargoyle.

The dai shakes his head and walks over to the body. Altair always had a flair for the dramatic.

He turns the body face-up, absently noting the dull _thump_ of assassin meeting haystack. The corpse is unremarkable, wearing the standard hood and leather armor of archers. Malik does a quick search of the man's pockets, arranges his limbs and is about to close his eyes when a glint of metal catches his eye. A silver necklace, wrought in the familiar shape of a cross, lies in the hollow of the corpse's neck.

Malik's expression immediately darkens. He has a hatred for his brother's killers, much deeper than the ingrained animosity taught by the Assassins, and it influences his actions more than he would like to think. He knows he should not, but he spits on the corpse and doesn't close its eyes.

A boot touches the ground on the edge of his vision, silently stirring up a cloud of dust. "Disrespecting a corpse? Al Mualim would not approve."

Altair says it mockingly, as if loyalty to their master is a fault. Al-Sayf only glares.

"A Templar," he says, and pulls the thin silver chain until it snaps. Dangles the hated cross in front of the assassin's face.

Altair frowns and turns to Abdullah, who has been discreetly backing away the whole time. The informant freezes like a deer in headlights.

"What do you know of this? Why would a Templar be following you?" he demands, taking a step forward.

"I… I angered s-some people. They… the archers have been l-looking for me…"

"Then perhaps you should seek refuge in the Bureau," Malik suggests innocuously. The informant shakes his head so hard the dai is afraid it will fall off.

"I am honored by your offer, but I… must decline. I plan to leave the city. Er, tonight."

The dai and the assassin trade glances.

Malik wishes he could say the connection they had shared as novices was gone. That they could no longer share a conversation in a glance. But he can't, and in that one glance Altair says, _A threat?_

Malik answers, _I do not think so. _

_But just to be safe_, golden eyes say.

_No._

"I thank you for the information. It is most helpful," Al-Sayf says, slowly. Many of the informants he has dealt with have had some dark secret or another hovering over their heads. He doubts this one is dark enough to be a danger. "Safety and peace, brother."

Abdullah skitters away like a startled squirrel. Malik watches him go, then glances at the Templar corpse at their feet and turns to Altair. He pockets the Templar cross. Ibn-La'Ahad watches him, but makes no comment.

"We need to hide the body," the assassin says pragmatically.

After dragging the corpse into a shadowed alley, they start the long walk back to the Bureau in silence. It isn't until he turns to Altair and opens his mouth to wonder _why Arsuf?_ that he realizes the significance. He had heard rumors, but to know it to be true…

"It's true," Altair says with reluctance, as if saying the words makes the reality more tangible. "He means to unite Saracen and Crusader against us…"

"But they have no reason to work together."

"No," the assassin says grimly. "They do. Eight, in fact."

"Eight? What…" Then realization hits him with the force of a hammer's blow. "Your targets."

"I have to leave _now_." Altair is subtly steering the two of them towards Jerusalem's gates, but Malik will have none of it.

"You go nowhere without Al Mualim's consent. Or haven't you learned?" he asks sharply.

"I haven't time to spend dawdling here. Every moment I delay, our enemy gets one step ahead of me."

"I sent a bird days ago, and messenger pigeons fly quickly. Al Mualim's response may have already arrived."

Altair hesitates, and for a moment Malik wonders if he will leave anyway. However, after a few heartbeats the assassin at last nods, moonlight gilding his hood in silver. The two make their way back to the Bureau in silence, occasionally ducking into the shadows to escape the notice of the patrols.

When they reach the building, Altair slithers up the wall like a lizard and smiles smugly. Malik gives him a glare that could melt steel before clambering up a pile of crates and torturously inching up the wall. He doesn't speak but his eyes hold a clear warning. The master assassin just flashes him a toothy smile and vanishes into the darkness of the Bureau. Malik follows, simply dropping down, half-hoping to land on Altair. Unfortunately, Altair did not linger under the grate after entering and the dai lands heavily on his feet.

Though outwardly dark, the inner chambers of the Bureau are well-lit with candlelight, warm and inviting. Walking to his desk, Malik is relieved to find a pigeon perched on a stand for that very purpose, cooing to itself softly. He doubts Altair would have lingered long if the promised news from Al Mualim had not appeared. He unties the message from the bird's leg quickly, feeling Altair's eyes on him, and unrolls the parchment.

_Rafiq of Jerusalem,_

_That is dark news indeed. Should the Saracen and Crusaders ally themselves against us, not all the assassins in our order could stand against them. We must take care of de Sable quickly. I will dispatch a group to Jerusalem. Give them what information you may have. The rafiqs of Damascus and Acre should send what news they could garner to you as well. Even as I write this, they are leaving for Jerusalem. They should arrive within a day of this letter._

_There is one thing you must tend to immediately, Malik. It has come to my attention that Altair's recent actions have been suspicious. He questions our work and motives often, and now he has allowed the Templar leader to escape his blade. I fear the Templars have won him over with their sweet promises. Altair must be killed, and the task falls to you—_

Malik stops reading, his face pale.

Altair, ever the perceptive one, notices immediately. "What is it?"

"Nothing," he says hastily, perhaps too hastily. His heart beats against his ribs like the wings of a bird, so loudly he imagines Altair can hear it. Malik cannot see it, but he imagines Altair's brow furrowing beneath his hood, the suspicion glinting in his brother's eyes.

"Let me see that." The Son of None reaches for the letter and Malik dances out of reach, continuing to read at a feverish pace.

…_Al-Sayf. Rid us of this traitor. If any assistance is required, you may seek the aid of your brothers. I have informed them of the situation, and though they grieve for the loss of such a skilled fighter, they will not hesitate to help._

_Safety and pea—_

The letter is ripped from his grasp and Malik curses, reaching futilely for the parchment with his lone hand. He knows it's impossible, but he tries to wrestle it from Altair anyway, crippled or no, because he can't let the other man read it, _can't—_

Then, suddenly, he comes to a realization: _This is my chance to strike. My only chance before he finds out._

His mind becomes like a well-oiled machine with gears of cold, polished steel turning smoothly against each other. He finds his eyes taking in every vulnerable spot on Altair's body – _the fabric of the hood cannot stop a blade, he is completely unguarded, even a light throwing knife could dispatch him_ – as if he had never stopped killing, never stopped being an assassin. The hand that pulls a throwing knife silently from his belt is not that of a dai's but a warrior's. A thought crosses unbidden through his mind: _For you, Kadar._

Is his ghost here? Malik cannot help but wonder. Would Kadar, sweet, almost childish Kadar, the little brother who laid on the walls of Masyaf and name the stars… would he want this? Would the boy lying on his back making up new constellations, the man who always looked up the Altair despite Malik's chidings, would he approve?

Al-Sayf's thoughts flash by in a split second, and Malik brushes his doubt aside just as quickly. Revenge is for the living, not the dead.

He draws his arm back, ready to plunge the blade into the soft flesh at the base of Altair's skull, but then, unexpectedly, he hesitates, remembering…

_Do not let vengeance cloud your thoughts, brother._

That hesitation is all Altair needs to finish reading and whirl around, hidden blade at the ready. In the space of a startled heartbeat, the master assassin swats the knife out of Malik's hand and shoves him roughly against the wall, resting his hidden blade lightly on the dai's throat. They are both breathing hard from adrenaline and fear, and freeze for a few breathless moments, trying to slow their racing hearts.

"You had plenty of time to kill me. Why didn't you?" There's a wild look in Altair's eyes and a gleam of _something_ familiar that Malik can't place.

He remembers:_ Altair looked briefly surprised at Malik's words, and then he smiled, faintly. _

The answer comes surely to his lips and his mouth forms them even as his brain struggles to catch up. "You aren't a traitor, Ibn-La'Ahad. You don't deserve to die a traitor's death."

Altair blinks, surprised, but his blade remains steady as ever. "You would go against Al Mualim's orders?"

The dai looks pensive, distant. Al Mualim had earned his unwavering loyalty after rescuing him and Kadar from a slow death by starvation on the streets. The people had turned away, disgusted by the two "beggar boys" who were thin as rails and filthier to boot, but the assassins had welcomed them as long-lost sons. The day the old man had picked the two of them off the streets, Malik had sworn to follow him anywhere, to the ends of the world if need be.

But even the most loyal sons have told a lie or two to their father…

"Of course not," the dai says at last, and to his credit he does not flinch when the blade is pressed harder against his throat, drawing a thin line of blood. "Altair left silently in the night, while I slept. I awoke to find the letter too late."

The assassin stares at Malik in disbelief, lowering his blade and retracting it with a loud, familiar _shink_. "You…"

"Leave," the dai bites out. "I did not see you. I never spoke to you. Now leave."

Altair opens his mouth as if to protest – _what,_ Malik thinks,_ does the fool wish to die?_ – or perhaps to propose another of his foolhardy plans – _novice, keep me out of your harebrained schemes_ – but Malik silences him with a glare.

His fists are clenched at his sides and his veins burn with liquid fire as he watches Altair slither up the wall and vanish over the rooftops. In his mind he sees his brother's face – mouth open in a wide 'O' of shock, hands framing the sword in his gut, his blood, _so much blood_ – pale in death, accusing.

_Avenge me, brother. Put me to rest. _

"I can't," he says quietly.

* * *

><p>I made my own day by comparing Malik to a cow. 8D<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Weeks pass before Malik hears from Altair again. In that time messages are sent back and forth – Malik apologizing for Altair's escape, Al Mualim demanding information with barely-concealed suspicion – lies are told, and facades put carefully into place. The silver Templar pendant is forgotten in the midst of this chaos, lying forlornly in a corner. Assassins ride from Masyaf to meet with Malik and garner what information they can, only for him to deny all knowledge of Altair's whereabouts. They leave empty-handed, and soon after, a message arrives calling the dai himself to Masyaf for a report in person. The Grandmaster does not bother to hide under a pretense of normalcy, and practically states in his letter that the dai is suspected of consorting with the enemy, the Templars. Or Altair – but to Al Mualim, the two are now the same.

Malik goes anyway. He stands before Al Mualim, looks the Grandmaster of the Assassins in the eye and lies through his teeth. He wonders at how easy it is to betray the man who gave him everything. When had he lost the respect he held for his Master? Why?

He knows the answer, of course. Altair.

What was it Altair had said? _You wield the creed and its tenets like some shield._ He had called Malik blind, willfully ignorant of what was going on, so now Malik opens his eyes. He sees before him not some all-powerful being, not an omniscient master of assassins but an old man, tired and paranoid. Al Mualim is afraid of Altair. The realization hits him like a slap to the face.

Malik returns to Jerusalem with a heavy heart and troubled mind. He looks at the city with new eyes and sees the hundreds of people Al Mualim has failed, hundreds of people promised justice and given none. Altair returns just in time to destroy whatever shreds of loyalty Malik has left.

The assassin makes his presence known through a note left on the dai's bookshelf, written in a code the two of them had created as boys. Malik surprises himself by recognizing it and reading it as easily as if it were plain Arabic – it seems like the harder the dai pushes Altair away, the more things he sees that remind him of their former friendship; of how well they worked together, despite their differences. The note's message is simple:

_Solomon's Temple when you are ready for answers._

_You know where._

The chamber is nothing like how he remembers it.

The collapsed masonry is unchanged, but the sunlight filtering down gives the place a peaceful, surreal look, so very different from the murky darkness and bloodshed he recalls. The place is quiet and the bodies are gone, buried in shallow graves hastily dug into the patches of soil peeking through gaps in the tiled floor. Malik scans the area where his brother had fallen, but there is nothing, not even bones: only Altair, watching from beneath the shadow of his hood, and a veil of dust stirred up by the assassin's passing.

"You took longer than I expected." Altair does not speak loudly, but his voice carries easily across the length of the room. Malik glares at him and clutches his stump of a left arm reflexively.

"And what, exactly, are you implying?"

The dai can just barely make out a faint smirk in the darkness. "Nothing."

Al-Sayf growls and makes his way down to Altair. To his surprise, there is a mound of freshly-turned earth, almost as if…

"What happened to my brother's body?" he asks sharply. Altair's smirk fades.

"The Templars left him to rot. I… buried what was left." There is an unfamiliar tone in Altair's voice, and Malik wishes he could see the man's eyes.

A few quick strides takes him to his brother's grave. He takes in the sword – Kadar's sword – planted upright in the earth, rusting but still strong, and the red sash, dirty but still recognizable, draped carefully over it.

"A proper burial." Malik hardly breathes the words, but Altair hears them nevertheless.

"I gave him an assassin's burial. —Is that so surprising?" The assassin's tone is almost defensive. Strange, this is all so strange. Altair's actions, his behavior – everything.

Malik says as much.

Altair lets out a long, hissing sigh and turns away. "Kadar should… not have died. It was through my own folly that you lost your arm and your brother. I am… sorry."

Malik openly stares. He cannot help it.

"Truly," the dai muses in wonder, "you are not the man I once knew."

Altair hesitates, and then says, "No."

Malik doesn't ask whether that is a confirmation or denial. He does not need to.

The two men stand in silence for some time, the only sounds audible are the faint cooing of a pigeon and the sounds of their own faint breathing. The atmosphere is solemn, almost church-like; Malik mouths a prayer for his brother, watching the dust filtering slowly up into the sunlight.

"Come," Altair says at last, and a spell or perhaps an understanding that had fallen over them…did not break, exactly, but rather faded away. "We have tarried long enough. I need to show you something."

Malik follows the other man without a word to a bloodstained table and a journal. Altair gestures towards it and the dai approaches it. Still he can see Robert standing, right… _there_, in front of the table. Still he can see Altair grappling desperately with the Templar, then thrown to the side as if weighing no more than a blood-soaked feather.

He reads.

_Today is the ninth day of our vigil here, and still he has not answered._

_We chose him because he was the oldest, the wisest, the most dedicated. We were certain he could resist the siren song of the Apple and be able to use it for the greater good, rather than submitting to temptation. But it appears we were wrong. None of our messengers, human or bird, have returned. It is clear that he means to take the Apple for himself using the Assassins, the blind fools. We placed the Assassin Order in his hands, and now we pay the price for it._

"What… wh-what is this?" Malik's hand is shaking, causing the page he is holding to waver in and out of shadow. He wills it to stop.

"Keep reading." Malik obeys, his gaze fixed to the pages by a sort of horrified fascination.

_I fear they mean to strike us here, in Solomon's Temple, and for that reason we make preparations to take the Apple far from his reach. We leave tonight._

A tattered, blood-stained sheet of paper has been wedged into the journal. Its words are barely decipherable. Altair motions for the dai to read it, as well.

_The assassins have taken … In his hands, its powers of temptation, of illusion, will be… irresistible. The Sword… leave quickly. Before he has time to make a move._

_Without the Sword to counteract it, we are lost._

"All this time, Al Mualim has been a Templar." Altair's voice slides into the air, soft and insidious.

"No." The dai knows the Master has been keeping things from them. He knows that Al Mualim is not perfect being, and that he has failed in many of his duties during these troubled times. Malik had even suspected that the grand master had his own agenda – but this… "No. The master would never… These are—are Templar lies, meant to mislead—"

"Stop hiding behind words, Malik! This is no trick, but the truth Al Mualim has been keeping from us!" The assassin is angry now, angry enough to grab Malik roughly by the shoulders and force the dai to face him, angry enough that he does not care when his hood slips and exposes his eyes to the sun. Eyes, turned gold in the sunlight, glare at Malik like two coins, flat and gleaming. He is suddenly reminded of their scuffles as novices, of Altair pinning him saying _Yield._

_Yield._

Phantom pains course through his missing left arm as he jerks away. "I know." Malik lets out a shuddering breath and is shocked to find his vision blurring. "I know."

"If you _know_, then why do you not face it? Stop lying to yourself. We have been used, Malik. All this time we have not been saving the Holy Land, but delivering it into this madman's hands!" The dai can hear Altair pacing now, like a caged tiger, boots tapping the rough-hewn stone in time with his agitation. "He must be stopped. _We_ must stop him."

_That_ gets Malik's attention. He whirls around to stare at the assassin incredulously. "Stop him? I think you forget that he is in Masyaf, a fortress filled with assassins loyal to his cause!"

And then, belatedly: "_We?_"

"And I think you forget we are assassins, trained in stealth. We know all the secret entrances, the patrols—"

"Yes, and so does the Master," Malik snaps. "Doubtless he has anticipated our coming and already awaits us, assassins posted at every entrance, secret or not."

Altair continues, turning a deaf ear. "And of course you are coming along, or do you wish to wait for the assassins in the Bureau like a ripe fruit to be plucked?"

"And why should they come after me?" Malik demands.

"Because," Altair says, "Two of them followed you to this temple."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. When it does, a chill sweeps over him – _but there were no assassins in the city, right? …right? – _and his heart feels like it is sinking into his stomach.

"They got away?" he breathes, even though he already knows the answer.

"I captured one," Altair said grimly. "The other fled."

Malik shuts his eyes tightly. "Then Al Mualim…"

"Thinks you are conspiring with me to take him down? Almost certainly."

The assassin says it so smugly, like he had orchestrated the whole thing, like he had manipulated Malik into a corner himself—

Malik punches him square in the jaw.

Altair staggers back, mute with shock. The dai is suddenly seething, filled with directionless, wordless rage. He pulls his fist back again.

Altair doesn't move.

The assassin meets his eyes steadily, and then raises his chin – not an act of defiance, but surrender, a baring of the neck. _An echo of memory; a ghost of a voice: "You had plenty of time to kill me. Why didn't you?" And, "I am sorry."_

Malik turns and lets his clenched fist fall on the table instead. One of its legs comes loose and it wobbles worryingly, but no wood splinters, nothing _gives_ under the dai's blow. Not meeting Altair's eyes, he asks hoarsely, "The prisoner. Did you question him?"

There is a moment of stunned silence, and then the faint rustling of cloth as Altair stands. "I did, though I learned little. The assassin is mad, driven insane by the Apple. I fear Al Mualim has made them all his thralls."

_Is the Apple truly so powerful as to take the minds of a hundred strong-willed men?_ Malik frowns, the past few minutes forgotten. "I would see this madman."

Altair eyes him oddly, but eventually simply nods and leads the way. The pair walks past the Apple's altar – Malik resists the urge to spit on it, the cause of all this – past the place where Kadar died, up a narrow flight of stairs to a dingy room. A man is there, bound and gagged; with a pang, the dai recognizes him as an assassin who had come to Jerusalem several times for the purposes of information-gathering and minor assassinations. The man had had a quick wit, Malik remembers, and a mischievous gleam in his eye. No longer.

The bound man's eyes are glazed and unfocused, fixed on some wondrous mirage of glory, perhaps, or a paradise he alone can see. When Malik enters, the madman's gaze sweeps over him once, twice—

He goes insane, jerking wildly at his bonds, flopping about like a fish on land in an attempt to reach the dai. The man pulls hard at the rope around his wrists but Altair had tied him well; he succeeds only in making the rough twine cut deeply into his wrist and nearly dislocates his shoulder. Desperately furious, mewling sounds force their way past his gag as he flails wildly. Altair hardly blinks.

"He wasn't like this when I questioned him," he comments mildly.

"Un-gag him." Malik watches the thrall unblinkingly. A cold feeling is stealing into his body, a feeling that something went wrong, that he had made a grievous mistake. Altair looks as if he is about to protest – against Malik ordering him about like a servant, most likely – but then he catches sight of the dai's empty sleeve and acquiesces. Nimble fingers make quick work of the knots.

Altair springs back quickly: teeth snap shut on empty air. The assassin swears.

But the madman has already turned toward Malik. "Another who does not walk the path," he is hissing, "but this one is far more dangerous than the other, oh yes, by a thousand times!"

"Explain." Malik's voice rings out clear and commanding, despite his misgivings. For a moment the prisoner seems almost lucid, his gaze sharpened with hate.

"You are a traitor to the order. A spy of the enemy!" He wriggles toward Malik to spit at the dai's feet. "The Master placed his faith in you! Showed you the light! You should have been honored, moved beyond words, moved to our cause – but no, you are a betrayer. A Templar!"

"A Templar?" Altair glances at Malik. "Speak sense!"

"When the traitor left, we searched the Bureau. Upon his table… a cross, the cursed cross of the heretics!"

"A cross… The cross I took from the Templar trailing my informant, then." Malik curses himself silently for leaving it in plain sight. A stupid mistake. A _novice_ mistake.

And now, Al Mualim would stop at nothing to find him.

Judging by his rapidly darkening expression, Altair is coming to the very same conclusion. "Al Mualim thinks you are a Templar spy."

"Yes," Malik says bitterly. "Rejoice. There is no question about my coming with you now."

Altair stiffens. "I did not plan this."

The dai turns away, shoulders rigid under his robes. "Whether you planned it or not does not matter. It is done."

"Malik—"

"Betrayers of the light! You must die!" The madman has somehow freed his hands and launches himself at Malik armed with nothing more than the rope that bound him. He scrabbles to get the rope around the dai's neck, pinning Malik's lone arm with hands slicked with blood flowing from his wrists. A thumb is bent at an odd angle – dislocated, most likely, when the madman had pulled his hands out of the knots. As a former assassin, the thrall is fast.

Altair is faster.

He covers the distance between them in a single leap, drawing his arm back; with the odd disconnect of a man facing death, Malik thinks Altair looks like a bird of prey, an eagle, with his robes parted behind him like wings and his hidden blade ready for the kill. Then cold steel bites deep into the base of the madman's skull, and the illusion is shattered.

The man dies instantly, without fuss. Altair wipes his blade absently on the thrall's clothing and sheathes it with a quiet, familiar rasp of metal. After a moment, he extends a hand to Malik – a gesture of contempt or genuine support? It matters little. The dai disdains the assassin's help and stands on his own, despite the dull ache in his arm and the dizzying rush of fast-fading adrenaline making him unsteady on his feet.

"You are alright?" Altair's voice treads the thin line between statement and query, carefully distant.

"I'm fine." The words come out harsher than Malik intended, but Altair is not sensitive enough to flinch and the dai is too stubborn to apologize: a new scar is added to the battered ties of their friendship – if it can still be called that.

Then the assassin does something unexpected - closes the distance between them, reaches out with a four-fingered hand to lift Malik's face. "You're bleeding."

"Yes, that does tend to happen when one's face is ground into the floor." Malik attempts to swat the hand away, but his own is caught by Altair's free hand. Al-Sayf scowls, cursing his handicap for what must be the millionth time. "There is no need to mother me, Altair."

Then, bitterly: "I may have only one arm, but I am still an assassin."

Altair suddenly seems to remember himself, and his hand falls away. He turns quickly, but not before Malik glimpses an embarrassed flush spreading across his features.

"I apologize. We should be leaving."

"No," Malik says, even though he knows their time is short. "First, a burial."

Altair frowns at the delay but for once does not argue. Perhaps, looking at the broken ragdoll body of the madman, he sees what Malik sees. A puppet, a marionette, whose strings were so transparent it believed itself free. What they were, once. What Kadar was.

The two carry the corpse out and bury him beside Kadar. They have only the one shovel Altair had used earlier to lay Malik's brother to rest, but between the two of them the grave is dug in record time. And then they take the thrall's sword and sash and plant it into the turned soil, because though the man may have been driven mad by the Apple, he was still an assassin and a brother.

They ascend to Jerusalem in silence, staying only long enough to gather needed supplies, and leave for Masyaf before first light.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **So it's come to my attention that this chapter has no humor. Uh oh.  
>Also, next chap might be late. Original fiction and poetry have eaten my soul.<p> 


End file.
